


Cupid's Bow

by Blondie54x



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Fantasy, Gods, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-02
Updated: 2015-09-02
Packaged: 2018-04-18 15:49:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4711589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blondie54x/pseuds/Blondie54x
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens when Gods interfere.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cupid's Bow

**Cupid's Bow**

by Blondie

 

There are some people that believe that the Gods are a thing of the past and perhaps, to some, they are. But despite all our supposed knowledge and all our supposed wisdom, our lives are still secretly governed by the whims of others — and not necessarily those on the same plane of existence as ourselves. A small number of mortals still cling to their belief in the old Gods, as well they might. They exist. Not in the numbers they did two millennia ago, at a time when man needed them the most, but there are still quite a few lingering around. Those who still have a job to do.

Though the Gods themselves have no need for names, mortals choose to give them, anyway. The Goddess of Love is known by many; Aphrodite, Venus, Freyia, to name but a few. And the God of Love; also known as Cupid and Eros.

These two are Gods that still have a purpose in this existence, for the world, regardless of its hard-bitten cynicism, still needs love.

Cupid, or Quentin Pidd - Entrepreneur, as he was currently known in his mortal guise — was holding a party in the Hilton Hotel. He had his eye on three or four couples that night. All had accepted his invitation to his celebration; most of them were total strangers.

It was almost midnight. Cupid had already set two of his targets on the true path of love, and now he had his eyes on the next couple.

Aphrodite appeared and slinked up to his side, her cream silk gown displaying her seductive charms. “Who do you have your sights on now, Cue?” she asked her friend, curiously.

He turned to look at her. In all his encounters with humans and Gods, never had he seen anything to compare to her beauty. Her long golden hair draped like a silk veil over flawless, white shoulders, and her eyes, cornflower blue, sparkled like early morning dew in the sunlight. He leaned in closer, inhaling her heady perfume, as he whispered, “Do you see that group in the corner? The one with the dark hair....”

“Oh, yes. He’s very handsome,” she purred.

“No, no, Aphrodite,” he said patiently. She could be so single-minded at times. “The female in front of him, the one in the long brown dress.”

Aphrodite’s smile wavered. “Oh. The one with the mousy hair and a complexion like sour milk? Yes, I see her. Who were you thinking of pairing her with?”

“See the Russian? The blond gentleman standing behind her? The one talking to Handsome.”

Aphrodite did see. And being an immortal, she could see more than with her eyes. Her face showed her disapproval. “But he is far too attractive and interesting for her.”

“But she’s a physicist and he has a Ph.D. in Quantum Mechanics. They should get along famously. And it’s about time he had someone to care for him.”

“She looks as dull as dishwater. Choose another, someone exciting, someone with a little more... ‘oomph.’ He could never be happy with someone that bland.”

“Aphrodite,” he said with patience, “I think I am the best qualified to judge who is suitable for whom. And looks are not everything. She has a very sweet personality.”

“Sweeet,” Aphrodite repeated, testily stretching out the word. “How dull.” She dipped her fingers into her martini, fished out the olive, and popped it into her mouth.

Though she’d seen him perform this procedure a million times over the centuries, she watched, fascinated, as Cupid pulled a small dart from his pocket and tied a two inch long, blond hair around the shaft. He had deftly removed the hair from the man’s shoulder, a necessary component in the matchmaking business: something personal from the donor, tied around the dart for the recipient. Satisfied, he removed a small, palm sized pistol from his pocket and loaded the small dart, shaft first, into the end of the device.

“Oh, that’s new,” she said, impressed by its size. “There’s a lot to be said for today’s technology, though I do rather miss that cute little bow you used to carry.”

Cupid smiled. “Well, that’s progress for you. Things just keep getting smaller and smaller.”

“Gods, I hope not,” she murmured, with a wicked leer.

Cupid returned her grin as he raised his hand. “Straight for the heart,” he muttered quietly, as he took aim for the center of the woman’s chest. As his finger squeezed the trigger, Aphrodite carefully nudged at his elbow, spoiling his shot. The ephemeral dart left the small bow, skimming harmlessly off the dark haired woman’s wine glass and hitting Handsome in the back.

“Dammit, Affy, look what you’ve done.”

“Sorry,” she said, with more sincerity in her voice than showed on her pretty face. “Still, it could have been worse. Besides, Handsome looks a much better prospect than Dull Jane, there.”

“Affy,” he said with frustration. “You’ve paired two men. I do wish you wouldn’t interfere.”

“What difference does gender make where love is concerned? Anyway, it’s not like these twentieth century mortals invented it. Besides, they’re friends. They already have a great affection for each other.” Before walking away, she leaned over to whisper confidentially, “I bet they’ve already thought about it.”

*****

Napoleon winced at the small stab of pain in his back. Damn those calisthenics. And damn his partner for dragging him to the gym when he could have been spending the time in a more productive way. Marcia, the new linguist, only worked on the Thursday evening shift, but Illya had insisted they stick to their pre-arranged training schedule.

The American looked his friend over as the blond head tilted to one side, listening intently to something Aunt Amy was telling him. She was the reason they were here. Two spare tickets, she’d said to her nephew, Why not bring your friend along? He looks like he could do with some fun. Napoleon would have liked to have asked Marcia, if he’d gotten the chance. If he hadn’t spent the time in the gym. It wouldn’t have hurt, Napoleon thought for the hundredth time, to have missed training just that once. It wasn’t like his friend needed it. Fitness-wise, he was probably at his peak. God knows there wasn’t much else he could do to improve that body. That lean, hard body....

Solo shook himself. Where had that thought come from? He’d spent too long in-between dates. Even Illya was starting to look like a good prospect. But now he did think about it, Illya was looking good. That week’s break they took after their last mission in Japan had brought a little color back to his cheeks. The hot steam baths had ironed out some of the kinks and soothed a few strained muscles. Napoleon winced internally, remembering how, as usual, his partner had borne the brunt of the punishment. It wasn’t until that afternoon at the hot baths that Solo realized the extent of the battering his partner had taken, seeing the livid blue and purple bruising as he’d stripped off the robe and slipped into the water beside him, naked. Naked....

Napoleon frowned, glaring down at the drink in his hand. Maybe someone had slipped something into his brandy.

“...poleon? Are you listening?” Aunt Amy was staring at him with concern.

“Hm? Sorry, what did you say?”

“You look a little flushed, dear. Are you all right?” Both Amy and his partner were staring at him now.

“Ah, sure.” He sighed and shook his head. “Actually, no. Will you excuse me a moment, I think I need to take a leak.” He passed his glass to Amy without daring to look into his partner’s eyes. How could he? Those eyes....

*****

Cupid caught up with Aphrodite on the dance floor, pulling her into his arms as they waltzed around the floor. He nuzzled at her ear, talking quietly. “My dear, sweet, Aphrodite, don’t you realize what you’ve done? These two men have an important job to do in this world. They have to work closely together, under very difficult circumstances. How do you expect Handsome to concentrate if all he can think about is his friend?”

She shrugged and the silken hair shimmied about her shoulders. “Well, once they realize their feelings for each other, things will be different. They’ll take better care of each other.”

“They take care now. Affy, they have nothing in common.”

“Darling, opposites attract.”

“My sweet, at the moment this love is one sided. I have a redundant dart in my pocket, with one of the lady’s hairs on it, and now, nowhere for it to go. How do you suppose we remedy this?”

“Simple. All you have to do is shoot one of those little arrows into Handsome’s partner, too.   Then, he’ll end up with an armful of Russian.”

“Affy, he’ll probably end up with a bloody nose.” He sighed as he spun her around expertly. “Oh, well. Nothing I can do about it tonight. I have other lives to see to.” He narrowed his eyes in thought. “I’ll do it tomorrow, when they’re on their own.”

Aphrodite slipped her arm through his as they strolled back into the hub of the party. “I’ll come with you. Maybe I can help?”

“Don’t you think you’ve helped enough?”

“Now, now, Cue. Don’t sulk. It’ll give you frown lines.”

*****

What was he thinking of?

Napoleon splashed more cold water over his heated face but it did nothing to cool the ardor inside. He couldn’t seem to block out the desire, the overwhelming need to take his partner in his arms and kiss him completely and utterly senseless. Why was he suddenly having these thoughts about his partner? These strong emotions? He hadn’t thought of Illya in that way before, not sexually. Not so passionately. Well... not in a long time.

But once he had thought of Illya in that way, when they had first been partnered. It was difficult not to notice the blond’s attractive looks and slender figure, those blue eyes, that pouting mouth. Especially at such close working quarters; in the tight, confined spaces they were often forced in together or the bed they occasionally shared out of necessity. And he had taken an appreciative sneak peak at his friend’s ‘equipment’ in the shower. But then, what man doesn’t? Just checking out the competition — right?

But their partnership had, inevitably, taken a different route. They became friends and confidants and his secret attraction was buried deep, turning to genuine affection for a true and loyal friend.

He heard the door swing open as he reached for a paper towel to dry his face, startled to hear his partner’s voice. “Napoleon? Are you okay?” Illya could read his mood swings so easily.

Solo recovered well, slapping a wan smile onto his face. “Just tired. Didn’t get much sleep on the plane. I don’t know how you do it.”

Kuryakin smiled, that rare, fleeting glimpse of white teeth that had dazzled Napoleon the first time they’d met. “You were spoilt as a child. I wasn’t brought up in the comfortable, decadent lifestyle that you were. Believe me, if you ever had to sleep in a ditch in the middle of a Russian winter, a seat on an airplane is an absolute luxury.” He leaned casually against the tiled wall. “Do you want me to drive you home?” Illya seldom drank much at these occasions and Napoleon took advantage of the fact, leaving his sober friend to take him home instead of risking a taxi.

Napoleon smiled, genuinely this time. “No, that’s okay. Go talk to Aunt Amy, make my excuses for me, would you? I’ll grab a cab.”

“If you’re sure. Let me know when you get home safely.” Napoleon nodded and watched as his partner left, smiling affectionately at the retreating form. It was nice, he reflected, having someone worry about you. It left him feeling warm inside.

Napoleon left the party, making it safely home. Once inside the security of his apartment, he called his partner to confirm his safe arrival, then stripped and took a cold shower. Finally, feeling relaxed, he went to bed, thought some more about Illya, and got up to take another cold shower. Eventually, sleep came, but his dreams were filled with sweet and erotic images of hard, muscular flesh and soft, silky hair.

Napoleon turned up for work the next day looking cool, calm and, to all but the keenest of eyes, collected. He was proud of his acting skills, his ability to plaster a smile on his face when confronted by the most insane of Thrush’s mad scientists in the most dire of circumstances.

He walked through the office door with an air of nonchalance, smiled a pleasant greeting at his partner, who was already halfway through the morning’s paperwork, dropped his jacket onto the back of the chair with a flourish and hummed quietly as he poured himself a coffee. Before he had managed to settle himself comfortably in his seat, his partner asked, “Napoleon, what’s wrong?”

Solo looked up, perplexed. “Huh?”

Kuryakin dropped his pen, leaning back in his chair as he carefully studied his friend with concern. “You seemed distracted last night. And this morning, too, though you’re trying very hard to cover it up. Is something wrong?”

Yes! “Nope,” he lied. He tried to change the subject, wagging a finger at the pile of papers on his friend’s desk. “Is that the report on the Bulgaria Affair?”

Illya mentally shrugged. If Napoleon didn’t want to discuss it, he wouldn’t force the issue. He looked down at the small stack before him. “Yes. I’ve just finished it.” With a sly smile, he suggested, “Why don't you take it over to Translations. Marcia’s working some extra hours this morning.”

Any other time, Solo would have willingly obliged, but at that moment, he had his mind firmly fixed on another delectable body. He was saved the bother of a reply by the timely arrival of the post boy, who pushed his heavily laden cart into the room just as Kuryakin spoke. “I’ll take it for you, if you like, Mr. Kuryakin,” he offered, helpfully. “That’s my next stop.”

Since Napoleon hadn’t responded to his suggestion, Illya thanked the young man, sealing the document into a buff envelope and scrawling the departmental name across the top. The post boy took it from him, exchanging it for a handful of post. “Looks like you boys have some admirers.” At Kuryakin’s puzzled look, he explained, “Valentine’s Day. Always gives the post room plenty of overtime.” He dropped a similar stack on the senior agent’s desk and left.

Illya sorted through the pile, putting the cards to one side unopened. Looking up, he noticed Napoleon doing the same. “What? Not opening your post from your numerous secret admirers?”

“They’re hardly secret.” He lifted one to his nose, inhaling deeply. Waving the unopened card in the air, he announced, “Cindy. She always puts a drop of her perfume on her mail.” He picked up another, studying the handwriting. “Maggie. She always draws that funny little smiley face on the letter ‘O.’”   He began sifting though them quickly, with an air of boredom. “Joyce, Valerie, Chantelle....”

Illya’s brow creased with concern. He hadn’t seen his friend this way before, as though the whole idea of the ‘chase’ had suddenly become a tiresome bore. Solo dropped the last envelope to the desk top and sat back, staring at them.

Illya rose to stand before him. Softly, he offered, “Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it?”

“No,” came the firm reply. Then a sigh, all the way up from his boots. He nodded, slowly. “Yes. Actually, yes, I do. But not here. Why don’t you come to my apartment tonight?”

Illya smiled. He liked Napoleon’s invitations, they usually included food. True to form, Solo added, “I have some steak in the freezer, I’ll cook dinner.”

*****

Napoleon didn’t answer the door. At his knock, Illya heard his partner call ’let yourself in,’ and he did so. The apartment was strangely subdued by softened lighting and moody music. The large lamp on the table by the side of the sofa was lit, giving the room a warm, cozy glow.

“What’s wrong with the light?” Illya asked, looking up at the unlit shade in the center of the ceiling.

Solo’s head popped out of the kitchen door. “What? Oh, um, the bulb blew. The lamp’s okay, isn’t it?”

“Sure.” Illya removed his jacket, laying it carefully over the back of a chair. As he walked towards the kitchen, he noticed the table had been set with the best china and crystal wine glasses.

“Are you expecting someone else?” Illya asked, slightly puzzled.

“No, just you.”

The blond grinned. “I’m flattered. What’s the occasion?”

Solo smiled as he came out of the kitchen, pulling the cork on a bottle of California red. “Do you realize we’ve been partners for exactly three years on Saturday?”

A mild look of surprise crossed his partner’s features. “Really? Doesn’t time fly when you’re having fun.” He held out one of the crystal glasses for filling. “But you never struck me as a sentimentalist, Napoleon. Why are we celebrating the fact?”

His partner shrugged. “I’ve been giving it some thought the last couple of days. We’ve been together longer than some married couples I know.” He left the bottle on the table before heading back to the kitchen.

“You’ve been giving what some thought?” Illya asked.

Napoleon came out, dropping a large bowl of salad in the center of the table. “Let’s talk after dinner, okay?”

A slight shrug of the shoulder was Illya’s agreement. Something was bothering Napoleon and he’d get around to that something in his own sweet time. “Need some help?” Kuryakin asked.

“Nope. It’s all ready. Sit down, I just have to dish it out.”

*****

Dinner went too quickly for Napoleon. He’d spent most of the afternoon thinking about what he was going to say — and how he was going to say it. He’d finally decided he was going to broach the subject of his feelings for Illya after his friend was comfortably stowed on the sofa with a belly full of food. Eating always relaxed his partner, more than any sedative medical science could come up with. He seemed to get the same afterglow from food that Solo did from sex.

After he’d polished off the last bite of chocolate mousse and fresh cream — Napoleon could almost hear his arteries crying for mercy — Illya congratulated the American on his culinary skills. His praise was genuine. Kuryakin, while a whiz with the Bunsen burner, couldn’t handle a stove if the fate of the world depended on it. He ate out, mostly. Home cooking came strictly out of a tin or carton.

He licked the last dregs of cream from his spoon before dropping it into the scraped-clean dish before him. Leaning back in his chair with a contented sigh, he rubbed at his belly, now stretched to capacity. Napoleon leaned his elbows on the table, resting his chin on clasped hands, as he regarded his friend.

What was that saying? ‘The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach?’ If that were true, Illya should be a pushover tonight. If only it were that easy.

“Why don’t we take our drinks and sit by the fire?”

“What about the dishes?” Illya always considered the chore of washing up to be fair payment for one of Napoleon’s sumptuous repasts.

“Leave it. Let’s get comfy. There’s something I have to say.”

Illya felt the worry coalesce in the pit of his stomach. His friend had his serious face fixed firmly in place. He had the feeling this was something he wasn’t going to like.

*****

Cupid and Aphrodite appeared at the apartment, just as Napoleon had taken a deep mental breath, preparing himself to explain his feelings to his friend. The two immortals had no fear of discovery. When they didn’t want to be heard or seen, no human would hear or see them. It was simply a matter of thought for the two Gods.

Cupid glanced around the bedroom, taking in the luxurious surroundings. This room was furnished for seduction: soft, sheepskin rugs on the floor; dark, satin sheets on the bed; and framed woodcuts of an erotic nature scattered about the walls. Cupid approved.

Aphrodite appeared at his side. “Oh, this is nice. But what are we doing in here?”

“I’m looking for something personal, something for the arrow.” He picked up the pile of opened mail sitting on the bedside table, smiling at the Valentine cards and their erroneous depictions of the God of love: cute, cherubic figures in diapers and wings.

“Really. I ask you,” he said, holding a card next to his face. “Does this look anything remotely like me at all?”

She couldn’t help but smile at the caricature. “Well, they have the hair almost right,” she informed him, brushing a hand through the curly blond locks. Then she walked over to the dresser and the small number of items there: a bottle of hair oil, aftershave, a brush and comb. She picked up the comb, and carefully removed one of the dark hairs trapped in the teeth. “How about this?” she said, holding it aloft for him to see.

He peered at it. “Perfect. Okay, Affy, go take a look, see how things are going.”

She moved over to peek through the half open door while Cupid prepared the dart.

“Any progress?” he asked, sidling up to her.

Her head shook. “Handsome’s pouring out the wine and charm in equal amounts, but his partner doesn’t seem to be taking the hint. You know, considering blondie has such a high I.Q., he can be exceptionally dumb.”

*****

“So,” Illya said as he sipped at the wine, wishing it were something stronger. He leaned back into the comfort of the sofa. “What is it you want to talk about?”

Napoleon had taken the chair opposite and, at his partner’s question, moved to sit nervously on the edge. Where to start? “Well, like I said, we’ve been partners now for three years.” He coughed, trying to clear a throat that had suddenly become as dry as the Mojave Desert. “And those three years together have been good. Productive. We’ve worked well together, and during that time...”

Illya listened to his friend babble on about their partnership and their achievements for a few minutes, while his mind tried to read between the lines. Though he couldn’t believe it, if he wasn’t mistaken, Solo was trying to give him some bad news, and was having considerable difficulty getting to the point. “Napoleon,” Illya said suddenly, interrupting the flow of words that were meandering around in no particular direction. “Are you trying to tell me... Are you saying you want to end our partnership?”

Solo looked at him as though Illya had taken complete leave of his senses. He moved from the edge of the chair, sliding across to sit next to his friend on the sofa. “Lord, no. No, no. That’s not what I’m trying to say at all.”

“Then what?” Illya asked, more confused than ever.

Napoleon topped up Illya’s wine glass and waited till he had nervously gulped it down like it was soda water. “I’m just not sure how to say... what I want to say.”

The black clad shoulders shrugged. “You’ve never been so inarticulate before. Just come right out and say it.” He gave an humorless laugh. “Because, I swear, Napoleon, this is driving me crazy.”

Solo turned a little to one side, facing his partner. He took the glass from the slender fingers and put it on the floor. “Okay.” He took a deep breath, exhaling slowly to steady his heartbeat. “Well, we’ve been together now for three years...”

“You’ve said that, already.” The blond was beginning to lose his patience.

“I know. Will you shut up and let me get this out?” Kuryakin’s mouth snapped shut. “In those years, we’ve been through a lot together. We’ve become good friends, gotten to know each other pretty well. And I’ve come to love you like a brother.” No, that wasn’t right. That would be incestuous. “More than a brother,” he amended. Illya was staring blankly at him. “Much more than a brother.” How much of a hint did he need? Could Illya be this dense? “Do you understand what I’m saying?” The blond seemed to be waiting for a further explanation. Solo pressed on. “I’d... like to take our relationship further. To... explore our... feelings for each other.” Kuryakin’s face suddenly blanched. Uh, oh. Napoleon heard the ‘other shoe’ drop with an resounding thud.

“Napoleon, are you suggesting that we... that...that you and I... That is, the...the two of us...”

Solo half smiled at his partner’s failed attempt to produce a coherent sentence. He stretched out his arm to rest along the back of the settee. “Would it be so bad if I were?”

Illya laughed nervously, a little less sure this time. “You’re kidding me.” Napoleon shook his head, leaning a little closer. Illya leaned away. “If this is some kind of joke...”

“If it is, the joke’s on me. Illya, I can’t get you out of my mind. I have to know how you feel, one way or the other.”

For some reason, his mouth wouldn’t work properly. “Did...didid...did...did...”

“Are we talking in Morse Code, now?” Solo asked with amusement.

Illya was too scared to laugh. He swallowed down the nervousness and took a deep breath. “Did you plan this?” he asked quickly, a quick gesture taking in the softly, glowing lamp and quietly playing stereo.

Solo glanced around the room. “I thought it might relax you a little.”

Illya looked ready to bolt. “I-I-I don’t know what to say,” The stammer was back.

Napoleon inched a little closer. “Say yes,” he begged.

“No!”

“Please. Just give it a try. You might find you like it.” He moved a bit closer; his partner moved back. Napoleon felt like a predator, stalking his prey. With each advance, Illya withdrew, trying to keep an equal distance between them. At least he hadn’t run. But space on the sofa was limited and, eventually, the arm of the sofa halted any further retreat by his friend. Solo’s left hand reached out in front of the blond to rest on the sofa’s arm, trapping his quarry. A finger reached out, slowly, gently caressing down one lightly stubbled cheek. The blond froze, like a rabbit watching a snake dance before him, unable to take his eyes from the hypnotic gaze of the hazel orbs, growing larger as they slowly closed the gap between them.

Illya’s hand went up, halting Napoleon’s progress with a strong grip to the shoulder.   “Napoleon, no!”

A little sigh. “Give me one good reason why we shouldn’t.

“Okay. We’re partners. We’re friends. We’re men!”

“I said one good reason.”

The pale face flushed crimson. Illya turned away, embarrassed. “I’ve never done anything like this before.” Napoleon felt a rush of relief. At least it wasn’t a refusal. Gently, he turned the face back towards him. At first, the blue eyes refused to meet his, but as he patiently waited, they slowly rose to study the American. “I don’t know what to do,” Illya confessed.

Napoleon’s mouth curved into a tender smile. “Is that all that’s bothering you? Well, why don’t we start with a kiss and work from there?”

*****

Aphrodite stood by the fireplace, an indistinct shadow, impatiently watching the interaction between the pair. She wished her friend would hurry up. If he didn’t do something soon, blondie would slip out of Handsome’s grasp.

*****

Illya was bent back over the arm of the sofa with his hand against Napoleon’s shoulder, King Canute trying to hold back the rising tide of Solo’s passion as the American leaned forward, attempting to connect with the blond’s mouth. But natural instincts and a lifetime of self-imposed reserve were still hard to ignore for the Russian. He really should say something. “Napoleon, wait...ouch!”   Illya suddenly flinched, his hand going to his side.

Aphrodite grinned. Oh, good shot, Cue! she thought, before she vanished back to her friend’s side.

“What’s wrong?” Napoleon asked as his partner reached a hand under his side. The slender fingers withdrew, holding a gold clip. “Gee, my tie pin,” Napoleon muttered, taking it from him. “I’ve been looking all over for that.”

Illya gave a theatrical wince as he shifted uncomfortably. “I think it punctured a lung.”

“Where?” Napoleon slipped a hand under the sweater and gently rubbed at the spot. “Here? Is that better?” The blond nodded, petulantly. The hand continued to massage slowly, sensually, in ever increasing circles. Adventurously, it moved over to caress Illya’s chest. Napoleon could feel the rapid beat of Illya’s heart and wished he could lock it away and protect it forever. Illya’s hand against his shoulder relaxed its grip, beginning a slow, tentative massage of its own. Napoleon leaned closer. “Now. Where were we?” Napoleon asked as his lips gravitated towards Illya’s mouth. “Oh, yesss....” A brief exchange of sweet breath and the final connection was made.

*****

Aphrodite reappeared at Cupid’s side. She gave her friend a hug. “It worked.”

Cupid looked at her, confused. “What did?”

“The dart, stupid. He caved in. The two of them are sparking off so much heat, it’s a wonder they don't ignite.”

The God of Love had the good grace to look embarrassed. “Affy, I didn’t fire the damned dart.” He showed her the small device in the palm of his hand. “This cursed thing jammed.” Annoyed, he rammed it in his pocket. “I never had this trouble in the old days, with hickory and hemp,” he huffed in irritation. “So much for the advance of civilization.”

“Darling, if civilization were so advanced, they wouldn’t need us.” She took a quick peak at the two lovers in the living room. “Speaking of advances, they don’t seem to need any more help from us, either. I told you they were a good match.” She smiled maternally at the couple, busily exploring previously uncharted territory. Each successful pairing was like giving birth to a new life. Satisfied, she dusted off her hands. “Well, where to next?”

“Paris, I think. Another month and spring will be here. And you know what they say about a young man’s fancy?”

Aphrodite blissfully sighed. How quickly time passed in this realm. Paris. She approved. “The Eiffel Tower,” she suggested. “That’s always a good place for romance....”

*****

“Napoleon?”

Breathed out in a sigh, “Hmmm...?”

“Where’s your left hand?”

“Where would you like it to be?”

“Light switch. Off.”

Click!

 

**The End**


End file.
